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Author : Jessicahall
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When I was a child, my grandma used to tell me stories, I never gave them much thought back then thinking they were just that, stories. Growing up, I soon realised that they weren't stories but memories of her past, memories of our ancestors before our world turned to shit. But what comes from legend, no matter how exaggerated the story gets, is a sliver of truth. You just need to weed out the fiction from fact.My grandmother used to tell me stories of the chosen one. The one who would save us all, I used to believe what she said was true. That eventually someone would be born like the oracle once said. Someone who could save our souls and bind us back to our magic. Once I grew up though and looking at what has become of our world, I no longer believe. The chosen one seems to be more of a prayer than reality. Some dream we wanted desperately to come true. Something we all prayed for. Something we needed to find hope when there wasn't any left. When our ancestors turned their backs on us, how were we expected to believe? When all we witnessed was death and carnage since the great war. Nothing except pain and poverty. I used to believe the stories, used to pray for the mysterious chosen one that would rid our world of its evil. Now though, I see it for what it is, just a dream of hope. Some out of reach fairy-tale. A story to create hope. Hope is dangerous, it makes you believe things will get better. I stopped hanging on to hope when I witnessed firsthand that it caused nothing but heartache.